is only natural. People go
away to their own families and home occupations; why should they
remember a person who has amused them for an hour?"

Miss Gertrude White could, when she chose, write a clever and
interesting letter--interesting from its very simplicity and frankness;
and as Macleod read on and on, he ceased to feel any wonder that this
young lady should be placing before him such ample revelations of her
experiences and opinions. Indeed, it was more than suggested in this
confidential chat that Sir Keith Macleod himself had been the first
cause of her having carefully studied her own position, and the
influence likely to be exerted on her by her present mode of life.

"One meets with the harsher realities of an actress's life," she said,
"in the provinces. It is all very fine in London, when all the friends
you happen to have are in town, and where there is constant amusement,
and pleasant parties, and nice people to meet; and then you have the
comforts of your own home around you, and quiet and happy Sundays. But a
provincial tour!--the constant travelling, and rehearsals with strange
people, and damp lodgings, and miserable hotels, and wet Sundays in
smoky towns! Papa is very good and kind, you know; but he is interested
in his books, and he goes about all day hunting after curiosities, and
one has not a soul to speak to. Then the audiences: I have witnessed one
or two scenes lately that would unnerve any one; and of course I have to
stand helpless and silent on the stage until the tumult is stilled and
the original offenders expelled. Some sailors the other evening amused
themselves by clambering down the top gallery to the pit, hanging on to
the gas-brackets and the pillars; and one of them managed to reach the
orchestra, jump from the drum on to the stage, and then offered me a
glass of whiskey from a big black bottle he had in his hand. When I told
papa, he laughed, and said I should be proud of my triumph over the
man's imagination. But when the people roared with laughter at my
discomfiture, I felt as though I would rather be earning my bread by
selling watercresses in the street or by stitching in a garret."

Of course the cry of the poor injured soul found a ready echo in his
heart. It was monstrous that she should be subjected to such
indignities. And then that cruel old pagan of a father--was he not
ashamed of himself to see the results of his own cold-blooded theories?
Was this the glory of art